


here we stand (or here we fall)

by tartymoriarty



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: And they were soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22338415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartymoriarty/pseuds/tartymoriarty
Summary: It’s the longest split-second of Brian’s life.He’s dimly aware of the crowd screaming, shocked and amused in the moment, concerned when Freddie doesn’t immediately leap back up. Brian doesn’t look at them, couldn’t care less about them; there’s a ringing in his ears that has nothing to do with the music and he’s by Freddie’s side in four strides.“Freddie?” he whispers. “Freddie, look at me, please.”
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 111
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the concert in 1984 in which Freddie fell and injured his leg during Hammer To Fall. It was prompted by Sarsjo way back in the summer so it's been a long time coming but, er, I got there in the end. 
> 
> This is part one of two, focusing on the hurt... the comfort will come soon :)

It takes a millisecond and an age.

Freddie’s always been particularly exuberant during this song, throwing himself about all over the stage, kicking and spinning and climbing all over anything that will feasibly hold his weight. Brian loves watching him, laughs with the audience as he twirls and shakes his head fondly when Freddie sidles up to him, pretending to play the guitar on his mic stand.

As the end of the song approaches Freddie dances away. Glancing up after him, Brian is momentarily distracted by a girl sitting on someone’s shoulders not far from the front as she waves madly at him. She holds his attention for just long enough for him to miss Freddie climbing the enormous platform at the back of the stage; by the time Brian looks back at Freddie, he’s already reached the top and is striking a dramatic pose to deliver the final line.

“Give it to me one more time!” Freddie yells, throwing both arms out wide in triumph.

Maybe it’s the gesture that does it, or maybe it’s that his footing was never particular secure to begin with, but that’s when it happens. One moment Freddie is silhouetted perfectly still against the powerful, blinding beam of their lights, and the next he’s wobbling on the edge, arms windmilling as he makes a hurried, hopeless attempt to regain the balance he’s lost.

It does no good; before Brian’s eyes he falls, his legs slipping from under him as he topples down the platform and lands with a resounding **crash** on the stage.

It’s the longest split-second of Brian’s life.

He’s dimly aware of the crowd screaming, shocked and amused in the moment, concerned when Freddie doesn’t immediately leap back up. Brian doesn’t look at them, couldn’t care less about them; there’s a ringing in his ears that has nothing to do with the music and he’s by Freddie’s side in four strides, unusually careless with his guitar as he discards to drop to his knees beside Freddie.

He’s conscious, _thank fuck_ , and Brian can’t see any blood, but Freddie’s face is screwed up in pain and the sight of it makes Brian want to scream, start ordering everyone else to shut up and get lost and leave them alone while he tries to make this better – but even as his heart pounds with the residual fear, his hands are gentle as he runs them swiftly over Freddie’s body, checking for injuries. Without thinking, he cups Freddie’s cheek lightly.

“Freddie?” he whispers. “Freddie, look at me, please.”

Footsteps are thundering across the stage towards them and at least three other people have gathered around, blocking the harsh glare of the lights, but Brian pays them absolutely no heed. His eyes are trained on Freddie’s face as Freddie drags his gaze around to look back at Brian.

“Brian,” he mumbles and Brian’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest even though it doesn’t really _mean_ anything, Freddie could still be concussed, there could be all sorts of things wrong. There’s an automatic relief in hearing Freddie say his name, though, and Brian allows himself to breathe out at long last.

Someone kneels down beside him and reaches for Freddie and Brian has to bite back a growl of protest as their shoulder jostles his _. It’s only Phoebe_ , he tells himself sternly. _He’s trying to help. Don’t be ridiculous._

“Can you stand?” Phoebe is asking.

Freddie gives a little nod and braces himself like he’s about to try and prove it. Before he can, Brian sets a hand down flat on his chest.

“Can you _really_ stand?” he asks, a bit sharper than he intends, but he _knows_ Freddie.

He knows that Freddie must be in a lot of pain because he doesn’t complain, or even glare. He just gives Brian a resigned look and murmurs, “My leg.”

“I’m going to get an arm under you and help you up,” Phoebe says, “okay? If it hurts too much, tell me.”

Freddie just nods again, squirming a bit as Phoebe eases an arm under him. He’s slowly guided up into a sitting position and from there Phoebe helps him slowly to his feet. He immediately lifts one leg up off the floor with a hiss of pain the moment he tries to put any kind of weight on it; before Brian can even put a hand out someone else immediately jumps forward and grabs his other side, helping Phoebe keep him steady as Freddie wobbles between them on one leg.

It’s Terry, and Brian knows that Terry is very fond of Freddie – the fact that he’s run on stage to help when he is definitely the kind of person who prefers to stay in the shadows says it all – but Brian still feels a stupid, irrational surge of annoyance. He got to Freddie first, he was there to help him, he’s perfectly capable of carrying Freddie if he needs it.

He stands up slowly. The crowd have quietened, cautious now that they can see how much help Freddie needs. Roger’s come out from behind his drums to stand beside Brian, his face creased with concern as he watches Phoebe and Terry help Freddie awkwardly across the stage. John is doing the same a few paces away; when he glances back at the two of them, the same worry is mirrored in his eyes.

Before they can hustle him backstage, Freddie twists in his helpers’ grip, looking over his shoulder for something even as his jaw sets against the pain.

Brian doesn’t need to be told what he’s looking for. He bends down and grabs the mic stand from where it fell next to Freddie, following him to the corner of the stage to pass it to him.

“Sorry, darlings,” Freddie says into it. His amplified voice is tight and he’s clearly struggling to hide his pain, but he still grits his teeth and smiles for the audience like they’re all he cares about. “Bit of a tumble, there!”

They cheer for him like they always do, loud and raucous. Freddie waits til he can get a word in edgeways and then adds, “You’ll have to bear with me for a moment but don’t worry, in the meantime Bri will keep you entertained!”

“Freddie!” Brian hisses.

Freddie lets go of the mic and flashes Brian a somewhat pleading smile, but Phoebe and Terry are helping him offstage before he can say anything else.

Brian wants to run after him, wants to push them away and carry Freddie himself and make sure that he gets everything he needs, but he knows what he has to do. He flashes the crowd a tight-lipped smile and picks his guitar back up.

It’s fortunate that his fingers know what to play but his mind is as far away from their music as it ever has been. Freddie doesn’t come back in ten minutes, or fifteen, or twenty, and it’s not that he’s surprised – he’s relieved, if anything – but it does mean that the three of them are struggling to find ways to keep the audience entertained. Brian ekes out his solo for as long as he dares (ironic, really, that he’s usually searching for an excuse to do this, and today wishes for an interruption at any moment); Roger takes up the mantle and delivers a resounding drum solo, and John joins in with roaring bass that makes Brian’s brain feel like it’s rattling around his skull.

Brian is just considering calling a halt to it all and telling them that he’s sorry but the show is over now when Freddie comes limping back on stage, Phoebe and Terry still on each side of him. He definitely can’t walk on his own; his injured leg is tightly wound in bandages around the knee and he’s thrown a baggy t-shirt on where he was topless before, but there’s a determined look in his eye that Brian knows all too well.

There’s an ugliness to the way the music cuts off as Brian stops to stare at him, incredulous. Freddie limps with great determination (and a lot of help) over to the piano and sits down at the stool. Phoebe hurries over to collect the mic stand and hands it to him.

“I’m back!” he announces cheerfully, which promptly sends the audience berserk. He grins at them, indulgent. “I couldn’t just leave you like that, my dears, it would have been so rude of me. So – who’s ready for a little _Bohemian Rhapsody_?”

Brian can’t believe him. He really can’t. And yet it’s so very _Freddie_. Brian really should not be surprised.

He’s still in pain, Brian can tell even if the audience can’t. He sort of wants to march backstage and demand to know what on earth Phoebe and Terry were thinking, letting him come back on. Stronger than that is the urge to lift Freddie bodily away from the piano and bundle him into the backseat of a car bound for the hospital, but Brian is going to have to resist that temptation for now at least.

He plays along as Freddie gets through _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , _We Will Rock You_ and _We Are The Champions_ , but a cursory bow is all the audience get before he’s straight at Freddie’s side by the end of the show.

Phoebe comes back to help but this time Terry doesn’t even get a look in; Brian’s got an arm around Freddie before anyone else can get near. Between them they heft Freddie off the stage, though he insists on stopping and making a show of his goodbye to the screaming audience, blowing them kisses and beaming. Brian can feel how tense he is beneath the façade and if Freddie doesn’t give in soon, Brian really is just going to carry him off.

“I tried to stop him,” Phoebe mutters, as though he can read Brian’s mind. “We all did. He wasn’t having any of it.”

“I can imagine,” Brian says grimly. He squeezes Freddie, as firmly as he dares. “We,” he says out of the corner of his mouth as Freddie struggles to get an arm free to wave at the audience, “are going to have _words_ about this."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took ages!! I had no intention of leaving it hanging like that, it just, er, happened.
> 
> I also didn't intend for this to be a three partner but there you go.
> 
> I will try my best to get the third (and final) part up sooner rather than later!
> 
> Shameless tumblr plug [here](https://rhapsodicalfreddie.tumblr.com/)...

They don’t have words about it for what seems like an age. Brian doesn’t have the heart for it as he helps Freddie out to the waiting car, not when he can feel the tension in the way Freddie leans on him and see the taut set to his mouth as he lowers himself gingerly into the backseat.

Terry’s got the engine idling, ready to go, and other than a few autograph hunters lurking nearby to chance their luck, it’s quiet. Brian’s too distracted to be properly glad of it but he knows at the back of his mind that it’s a good thing; Freddie’s in too much pain at the moment to care about witnesses, but as soon as his pain is under control Brian doesn’t doubt he’ll want assurance that the whole thing has been kept as private as possible.

Well, as private as a very public tumble on a stage in front of thousands of people can get, but Brian will take whatever he can. A few fans might have captured the moment of the fall or the aftermath, but a lack of paparazzi is always a good thing.

His hands are still on Freddie even though he’s settled in the car now. Brian realises belatedly that he needs to move them because he doesn’t really have an excuse for touching Freddie anymore, but he’s loathe to let go; his hand lingers on Freddie’s shoulder when as Phoebe ducks down to peer under Brian’s arm and get a good look at Freddie.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, his voice full of concern, “it’s not far – “

“Sit in the front, for fuck’s sake,” Freddie snaps, as though Phoebe is planning on shoving Freddie up to squeeze into the gap next to him. Phoebe ignores the brusque tone and Brian squeezes Freddie’s shoulder in warning, but just gently, because he knows it’s the pain talking.

“I’ll follow you to the hospital,” he says at Phoebe gets into the passenger seat. He lets go of Freddie’s shoulder and goes to shut the car door but Freddie throws him a look that’s difficult to decipher, almost suspicious even as he grits his teeth against the pain in his leg.

“Why?”

Brian stops. Freddie isn’t even looking at him now, he’s looking back at his leg, running his hands over it and wincing. Brian looks at his familiar profile, furrowed brow and clenched jaw, and opens his mouth to reply, but he isn’t sure what to say.

So he doesn’t say anything; he just closes the car door and steps back. Terry revs up the engine and then they’re gone.

-

Brian spends the next half hour pacing backstage and trying to ignore the little voice which is telling him to drop everything and leap in his car, which had been his plan up until the moment where Freddie made it clear that he doesn’t want or need Brian fussing over him.

He’s rude to John and snaps at Roger, shouts at a roadie for closing a door too loudly and refuses any and all offers of going out to blow off some steam, even when Ratty (bravely) mutters something about how he clearly needs it.

Roger and John shut him down when he tries to distract himself by dissecting the performance (their performance) up until the moment where Freddie fell.

“Here’s a thought,” John says, louder than usual because he’s got a vodka and lemonade in his hand, “why don’t you just fuck off to the hospital and check on him rather than taking it out on us?”

Brian glares at him but before he can say anything, Roger cuts in.

“He’s right,” he says flatly. “We’re all worried about Freddie but he’s going to be fine, Brian, you know that, he’s in good hands.”

 _He might be in good hands but he’s not in_ my _hands_ , Brian thinks furiously, and – oh.

The thought stills him, shocks him in a way that shouldn’t really be a shock. He tries to push it away, fails, recoils at the concept of it even as he’s struck by the urge to grab it and hold it tight to his chest. It’s _Freddie_. His friend, his bandmate, his brother, he can’t feel like this about him, he can’t allow himself to feel like this about him.

But then… hasn’t he always felt this way about Freddie?

Painting his nails white because Freddie has started painting his black and he loves the idea that he is Freddie’s opposite, his mirror, so different but intrinsically the same. Loves how it’s equal parts discreet and showy, a glimpse of white as his fingers trace the strings, a flash of black under a dusty spotlight as Freddie throws his arms up in a flourish.

The immediate dislike that settles hard and heavy in his guts when Freddie introduces them to his latest boyfriend, nearly as tall as Brian but three times as broad; Freddie hanging off their arms with shining eyes, so giddy at the idea that he’s not the lonely one anymore. Nine times out of ten they turn out to be shit and Brian’s not glad, he’s never glad because he could never do that to Freddie, but nevertheless it’s a inevitably a relief in some awful, selfish way that must always, always stay hidden.

The rage that boils just under the surface of his skin when journalists dig their teeth and nails into Freddie. How it makes him want to contort his body to cover Freddie, wrap himself around him and shield him, take every hit they throw and every bruise with it.

And the way none of that matters when Freddie smiles, when Freddie laughs, when Freddie looks at him. When Freddie exists near him.

Brian becomes aware that he’s standing very still. His glare has slipped, morphed into a distracted frown even as his thoughts tumble over and over each other, each sparking a new realisation that’s not a realisation because he’s known it for years, really, he’s just never let himself look that realisation full in the face. He’s still aiming the frown at Roger – Roger, who has evidently just said something and is now staring at him with exasperation and perhaps also a tinge of concern.

Brian doesn’t say anything for another long moment, partly because that’s how long it takes him to fish any coherency out of his swirling mind, and partly because the one thing on the tip of his tongue is the one thing he can’t possibly say here and now.

“I’m going,” he says slowly, at last, “to the hospital.”

Roger just nods. He still looks concerned. Behind him, John is topping his glass up and eyeing Brian with a baleful sort of shrewdness that makes Brian think he knows exactly what’s going on.

Brian turns and leaves.

-

He takes a taxi because he doesn’t fancy his chances at navigating the unfamiliar German streets in the dark but it still takes him longer than he expected to get to the hospital. Now that he’s allowed himself to think about Freddie he can’t stop, but as he gets closer to the hospital it turns out all he can really think about is the twist of pain in Freddie’s face.

He’s never been as glad of his long legs as he is when they enable him to overtake all the stragglers hanging around the hospital entrance. He’s brusque to the receptionist, he knows he is and he’s sorry for it but not sorry enough to delay himself by apologising; the moment he has Freddie’s room number he’s off.

The hospital is a maze but Brian is on a mission. He finds Phoebe in the corridor outside, clutching a plastic glass of water between tired fingers. He’s leaning against the wall but he straightens up when Brian approaches, visibly relieved.

“Brian,” he says, “thank god – ”

 _That_ does nothing to soothe Brian. “What’s wrong?” he demands. “Where’s Freddie, what did they – ”

Phoebe shakes his head quickly. “He’s fine, he’s fine. They’ve sorted him already, they’re very efficient. It’s not broken, he’s just hurt the old injury, they’ve strapped it up for him and he’s on some excellent painkillers.” His mouth twists ruefully. “Fortunately. He was having quite the strop earlier. He was asking after you, kept saying you’d promised to be here.”

“I did but he – ” Brian stops, sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and moves on. “Well, I’m here now.” He glances at the door. “Is he awake?”

“He was fifteen minutes ago,” Phoebe offers. “Until he banished me for, as he graciously put it, ‘fucking fussing everywhere’.”

Brian grimaces but he can’t help but smile just a bit and neither can Phoebe. He just shakes his head, fond, and Brian is suddenly very glad that Freddie has him.

“You look exhausted,” he says. “Why don’t you get back to the hotel?"

"Are you sure? He - "

“I’m well versed in the art of Freddie handling,” Brian says dryly.

Phoebe just laughs quietly. “Oh yes. I know. Thanks Brian – do give me a call if you need anything, won’t you?”

“I will,” Brian promises. He watches Phoebe go and stares down the empty corridor for a few moment after he’s gone, fully aware that he’s putting off the inevitable and abruptly very, very nervous about it.

He isn’t sure what he’s going to say. He thinks he probably won’t be sure until Freddie’s in front of him, terrifying as that is.

But he can’t put it off any longer. Brian releases a breath that’s far more shaky than it has any right to be and turns to the door to let himself in.

It’s quiet inside the hospital room sound for the save of rhythmic breathing. Freddie’s leg is tightly strapped around the knee, above the blanket, though the rest of it is tangled up around Freddie’s torso. Freddie himself is fast asleep, his face turned towards Brian and his cheek slack against the pillow. He looks very young, like the Freddie that Brian met in that smoky pub all those years ago.

Brian was right; it’s here with Freddie in front of him that he finally thinks he has something to say. Not right now, but that doesn’t matter; he can wait.

He pulls the chair by the bed out and sits down in it, content to stay with Freddie until he wakes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part!
> 
> Freddie wakes, and Brian speaks.

Time passes. Brian sits, sprawls and stretches out by Freddie’s bed as the minute hand travels round the clock on the wall, alternating between sleepy and wide awake.

He’s not sure what’s worse. It’s a very specific wide awake feeling that he only ever gets after concerts, when his ears are still echoing with the roar of his guitar and Freddie’s thundering vibrato; he’s jittery and uncomfortable, unable to settle. He taps out tunes on the side of his plastic chair, paces then gives up on it, stares into space with eyes that can still see thousands of upturned faces, raptured by the music –

( - screaming as Freddie falls, row after row of shocked faces and Freddie is just _lying there –_ )

As much as he hates that restlessness it’s almost worse when he feels himself starting to succumb to sleep, heavy-eyed and blinking hard as lethargy steals over him. He fetches himself a lukewarm coffee from the vending machine in the corridor after checking, double checking and triple checking that Freddie doesn’t seem likely to wake up in the next thirty seconds (a mission that he aborts twice, firstly because Freddie sighs in his sleep and secondly because he convinces himself that the soft, barely-there click of the door closing behind him is enough to wake him). The coffee isn’t all that nice and Brian abandons it halfway through, but at least his eyes feel a little less weighed down.

He watches dawn begin to break through the gap in the curtains and lets himself get lost in that for a while. Pinks and oranges begin to seep into the inky sky like the watercolours Freddie used to experiment back in their flat when it was the four of them together, Brian reading on the sofa beside him in companionable silence. Before long the oranges give way to a brilliant, vibrant yellow, and when Brian next glances over at Freddie, Freddie is awake and watching him.

He looks ethereal, lying there like that, hair and eyes as dark as ever but his skin painted in the warmest colours of dawn. He still looks exhausted, Brian can see it in his brow and in the slow, halted sweep of his lashes as he blinks tiredly at Brian, but he no longer looks like he’s in pain and that’s enough for Brian right now. More than enough, it’s a blessed relief, and Brian’s shoulders drop with the release of tension he hadn’t even realised he was holding.

“Freddie,” he breathes. He’s by the bedside before he’s even registered moving, sinking to his knees so that he’s on Freddie’s level. Automatically he reaches out to touch Freddie’s shoulder when he tries to manoeuvre himself up into a sitting position, though he’s not quite sure if he’s trying to support or restrain.

Freddie squirms a bit under Brian’s hand as he tries to get himself comfortable. “The pillow,” he says before Brian can ask what he wants, “can you - ?”

Brian pulls the pillow up so it’s in a better position for Freddie to lean against. Freddie gives a little sigh of relief, rolling his shoulders.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks.

“A few hours. Phoebe was here, before – ”

“Mm, I remember.”

Does he remember asking for Brian? Brian so wants to know, but he can’t ask that. Not now, not yet.

“How do you feel?” he asks instead.

Freddie grimaces and Brian stands up immediately, already chastising himself for reading the situation wrong, for not realising that Freddie is still in pain – but Freddie stops him, his hand on Brian this time. He can’t reach Brian’s shoulder so he touches Brian’s wrist instead. 

“I feel fine, darling, don’t worry,” he says, amused, but not unkindly so. “You’ve done a wonderful job of looking after me.” He doesn’t _sound_ like he’s being sarcastic but Brian doesn’t answer him, just in case. “I was just thinking about the embarrassment of it all. God. Fucking falling like that, how humiliating.”

“Nobody was laughing,” Brian offers quietly. “Everyone was just worried about you.”

Freddie sniffs at that but he does look slightly appeased. “I should think so,” he mutters. After some thought, he adds, “If anyone took a photo I’ll kill them.”

Brian can’t help but smile, stupidly fond of the petulant little pout at Freddie’s mouth. “No photos,” he agrees, privately wondering how easy it would be to track down those autograph hunters from outside the venue.

Freddie pokes at his bound leg with a frown. “I hope they don’t think I’ll be staying in this,” he grumbles.

“You’ll stay in it for as long as they tell you to,” Brian says firmly.

Freddie shoots him a look that can only be described as challenging, but Brian doesn’t rise to it. That’s for the doctors to handle, this time; Brian can just be on-hand to show off his Freddie-wrangling skills, should the need arise.

“Did they tell you anything? When can I leave?”

Brian abruptly feels guilty. Why didn’t he think to find a doctor or anybody who could give him more information? He should have known that Freddie would have questions. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, as usual.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ll give Phoebe a call, now that you’re awake. He was the one who – I didn’t really do anything, I came later.”

“Don’t be silly,” Freddie says, frowning at him. “You were here when I woke, weren’t you?”

Brian doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks away. The vending machine outside the door catches his eye again and he seizes the opportunity gratefully. “I’ll get you some water.”

It’s a relief to be able to turn his face away from Freddie for a few seconds, which is strange, considering he also wants to keep looking at Freddie and never look away. As the cold water fills the flimsy cup he takes a few breaths to steel himself. He’s going to have to tell him, he knows that, and every moment he pushes in between now and then is just dragging it out.

He can’t drag this one out for long. The cup is only small but Freddie seems grateful for it, sipping at it slowly. Brian fetches one for himself too, because he’s got a stupid urge to blurt out something inconsequential, to make noises about how Roger will be coming by later and Brian will go then. Like he’s just being a good mate, checking on his bandmate slash friend slash brother. To make excuses for why he’s here, for why he was the one at Freddie’s bedside when Freddie woke up.

It’s not that anything has changed. That’s the jarring part. There’s absolutely nothing different in his feelings for Freddie now, and feelings for Freddie this time yesterday, before any of this happened. It’s just the first time Brian has been brave enough to look those feelings full in the face and accept them for what they are.

Unbidden, a memory steals across his mind’s eye; a younger Freddie, skinny and intense, feverishly working on a new song that seems to have no rhyme or reason to it at all. This album’s a new sound for them and Brian is enjoying it, they’re all contributing songs but the album has got a playful edge that is so purely _Freddie._ This song of Freddie’s seems to be pushing the boundaries even more. He hasn’t asked for their input yet, that will come later, and Brian is looking forward to it, intrigued by the scrawl of curly-lettered lyrics under Freddie’s elbow, the random notes that he keeps tapping out on the piano.

There’s a few notes in particular that he keeps playing, again and again, a gentle swell of music that makes something stir at the back of Brian’s neck. He’s never heard it before but he feels like he knows it all the same. It’s beautiful, haunting, and he can’t resist leaning over to glance at the words Freddie has scribbled down even as Freddie bats him away with a distracted protest.

_Open your eyes_   
_look up to the skies_   
_and see._

Over the years Brian had thought that he’d mined every possible emotion he could out of Freddie’s mad, glorious poem, but he thinks that maybe the song has taken on a new meaning for him tonight.

Freddie is looking at him again.

“You look a million miles away, darling,” he says. “Penny for them?”

Brian’s heart is thumping unevenly in his chest. It’s now or never, he thinks, and feels sick.

“Freddie,” he says. “I – ”

He stops. He’s always been a man of so many words, too many words according to his bandmates, and now here he is, standing in front of one of them at a loss for how to accurately convey what Freddie means to him.

Freddie looks concerned now, and a bit wary, like he’s expecting some terrible news. Brian hates that look on his face. He forces himself to soldier on.

“When you fell,” he says. “I – you didn’t move, you were just lying there, and I – ” Freddie opens his mouth but Brian holds a hand up, because if he doesn’t force these words out he will never say them and he will regret it until the day he dies. “I thought that maybe you wouldn’t get up and it was the worst I have ever felt in my life and I have felt. I have felt bad, before.”

It’s blunt and ugly and messy but Freddie nods at him in understanding. He knows this. He’s seen Brian in the dark, that raw, wounded version of him that Brian detests and despairs of. He’s been the one to sing that Brian away, to bring back the version who can laugh and feel something like peace. 

“It made me realise that I haven’t been entirely honest with myself,” Brian says slowly. He wants to close his eyes because he can’t bear the thought of Freddie looking shocked or angry or disgusted with what he’s about to say, even though he knows that realistically Freddie would never do that to him even if he doesn’t feel the same, because Freddie is far kinder than anyone gives him credit for. “And I haven’t been honest with you. I don’t – I don’t know how to put this into words, so I’m just going to say it. I don’t feel for you like a brother should, it’s more than that, and I’m so sorry if that’s out of place, if it makes you uncomfortable, because that’s not my intention at all. But I wanted you to know. Because after I saw you fall I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you.”

The silence that follows is utterly deafening and Brian can’t bring himself to look at Freddie. He can sense Freddie’s eyes boring into him but he stares resolutely at the wall instead.

“Brian,” Freddie says softly.

Brian doesn’t look away from the wall. He feels like he’s standing on an edge, and one word or glance from Freddie could send him into freefall.

“ _Brimi_.”

Or haul him back from the edge.

That old nickname from a time now passed gives Brian the courage he needs. He looks at Freddie.

Freddie is smiling.

The relief of it nearly floors him. It’s not a sympathetic smile, or a ‘that’s lovely, Brian, thanks for telling me, but – ’ smile. It’s an honest, warm, _pleased_ smile. 

“Come here,” he requests, holding a hand out.

Brian does. He closes the distance between them and it’s Freddie who reaches out and takes Brian’s hand in his.

“Brian, darling, I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says simply. “Since the start.”

Brian would very much like to wrap those words up and carry them in his pocket for the rest of his life but he has to be sure, he has to know that Freddie _understands_ , that they’re on equal footing here. “You’ve loved - ?” he begins, but Freddie picks up on his question immediately without him having to finish it and cuts him off.

“I’ve been in love with you since the start,” he amends. 

He just says it, looking up at Brian like those are everyday words, and Brian is, as he always has been, awed by the sheer unapologetic bravery of Freddie Mercury.

And Brian isn’t brave like Freddie, he never has been. He’s got his own ferocity and he’s not afraid to stand up for himself but here, in this quiet little moment in a Munich hospital room, he feels as vulnerable as he’s ever felt in his life.

Freddie lets go of his hand, but it’s okay because he’s reaching up to hold Brian’s face instead. Brian has watched those fingers fly across piano keys before and now they’re here on his skin, warm fingertips tracing his cheekbones. This close, Brian can see his thick black lashes and the tiny scar under his eye from where Kashmira whacked him when they were children, the stubble shadowing his jaw. His mouth. He leans in -

\- and stops, because he has to, because Freddie’s gentle touch has turned into Freddie gripping his face and holding him at arm’s length.

“Please don’t kiss me,” Freddie says, very seriously. “I haven’t brushed my teeth since before the show and I drunk quite a lot of beer during the show _and_ I’ve been asleep for hours.”

“Freddie! I thought something was wrong!”

Freddie just grins unrepentantly, the bastard, but he does let go of Brian’s face.

“Later,” he promises. He turns his head to the side and suggests, “Kiss me on the cheek for now?”

And Brian does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
